The Darkened Path, Part One: In the Dead of Night

[Christoph]

The sun set peacefully in the quiet sky, casting a golden glow over a horizon of pine-covered mountains and illuminating the rocky bald spots of the landscape. The only sounds save the gentle rustling of the late summer grass were the steady creaking of a trio of wagons, accented by the muffled clopping of hooves. Even in the wane of dusk, the worn, winding road stretched on for miles into the eastern horizon like the stray mark of a scribe’s pen.

Christopher Knighton was stretched out on a pile of wheat sacks, peeling potatoes with a small knife and tossing them into a large pot of water. He felt relaxed and content. His white chef coat was clean, though it had become little more than a patchwork of assorted stains and mended tears. He inhaled the crisp air with a genuinely happy expression. There were traces of the Salvic chill, as well as the distinct aroma of the land’s soil, pines, and farm animals. It smelled like home. After over two years of travel all across the Althanas, and gods-know where else, it felt wonderful to be breathing familiar air again.

Finally, he could put his whole extraordinary ordeal behind him. Indeed, he’d seem more of the world in those months than he had in his entire life leading up to it. He’d met fascinating people and done some amazing things. However, the facts that many of those people he’d met were trying to kill him and much of what he did also almost resulted in his death in one manner or the other certainly put him off to traveling. It was almost as though some bored gods had taken it upon themselves to toy with the chef for their own amusement.

Amusingly enough, his unwanted harrowing adventure was supposed to be nothing more than a four-month business trip. His mother was opening up a second tavern in a nearby town, and with two establishments to run, the need for a larger quantity of cheaper imports became necessary for success. Chris had been sent off to work out a number of contracts with foreign shipping agents and warehouse owners. He’d been successful in this, naturally, but there was just something about zombie attacks, wars, pickpockets, untimely arrests, and shipwrecks that made business ventures take longer than they are supposed to.

As a result, none of the pleasant points in his long journey were enough to make him want to do it again. Ever. He concluded, plunking another peeled vegetable into the pot, that even a peaceful, and for the most part boring, life of working in his hometown’s tavern was preferable to living out an existence of self-inflicted misery as a traveler.

He sighed wearily from the memory, but pushed it all from his mind. It didn’t matter anymore; it was over now. In another week, he would be back in his hometown, working in the tavern’s kitchen, and telling stories to curious patrons. Assuming anyone recognized him, anyway. His ordeal had changed him. He looked older, the last vestiges of his baby-face gone. His brown eyes were more intense, his brown hair curlier and longer, and his frame was whipcord-lean and fit. He wasn’t the same lazy child that had left the tavern almost a year ago.

A large town slowly appeared in the distance. The glow of several dozen fireplaces escaped the windows of most every house, making the distant settlement look like a handful of burning embers tossed over the dark hilltop. Then, oddly, the metaphorical embers died one by one as the lights went out, leaving a cold emptiness in their place. Odd.

He recognized that town; its name was Tirel. He’d passed through the town with his mother a few times growing up. It made no sense for them to put their lights out so early. Whatever the cause, Elijah’s track record with luck and fate tempted him to believe that it wasn’t good.

[Christoph]

The wagons continued to creak along the eastbound road toward the darkened town. By the time the last of the sun’s light faded from the dreary sky, they had reached the edge of the gloomy settlement. Even the horses were uneasy.

Chris finally sat up and examined the town more closely, unable to grasp why an entire settlement would put out its lights so early. Being there gave him a foreboding feeling, and not just because of the lights. The surrounding countryside was subtly unsettling. Though it had nothing overtly wrong with it, the land itself seemed unhealthy. The dark, lush carpet of grass had gradually faded into a yellow, patchy rag of vegetation, and the soil was dry and cracked.

The massive forest beyond possessed an unwholesome quality as well. Summer had reached its peak, yet the forest looked as though it had been ravaged by winter. The leafless skeletons of deciduous trees stretched upward like demonic claws reaching for the heavens. Even the mighty pines had an ominous look to them, towering above their sickly cousins like vicious slave masters. This was definitely not the cheerful little hamlet that he’d remembered from his youth.

The weary cook had been tempted to suggest to head of the caravan that they bypass Tirel and continue on. The quiet, brooding man had seemed dead-set on stopping the wagons there, though, despite having all the supplies they needed. A warm bed couldn’t have been that tempting, either; they had all made due with sleeping in the wagons for weeks. Still, Chris held his tongue; that man was not the type that he ever wanted to cross.

He’d never seen a merchant like him before. The man dressed and acted as a merchant would, wearing a faded charcoal cloak and well-tailored clothing common for his class. He prayed unusually often, but otherwise spent much of his time silent or speaking to the others in financial terms. There was still something different about him, though.

He appeared fairly young, perhaps only a handful of years older than the chef. His face was youthful and mostly free of scars and thick black hair fell down past his ears. His dark green eyes, however, were as hard and distant as a soldier’s, and were so piercing and potent that Chris dared not meet his gaze.

His forceful and compelling presence kept the caravan on its course into gloomy town without protest.

If anything, the settlement seemed even more depressing and off-putting from the inside. Every window was shuttered and some were even barred. The doors were locked and every light had been extinguished. The trio of wagons made their way for the Inn, which was as dark as everything else.

“Well, it looks as though we’ll be sleeping outside, tonight,” said the chef, thinking out loud. He smirked. “I somehow doubt they’ll let me in if I ask nicely.”

Chris took a moment to organize all of the reasonable assumptions regarding the situation. The first assumption was that the townsfolk were afraid of something. This, of course, was so obvious that it didn’t even count as an assumption. Its associated question, regarding what, exactly, they were afraid of, wasn’t an assumption either; it bordered on the opposite end of the philosophical horizon, where wild guesses and paranoia reigned supreme. He had more than enough of both to spare.

Another assumption that he felt safe making was that the townsfolk were either hiding something or they believed that the caravan was somehow associated with whatever they were afraid of – or both. Why else would they have put out all of their lights and fireplaces just as the caravan came into view? That piece of information would actually be very crucial, especially considering all the dark, shadowy forms of villagers lurking around some of the corners.

Everyone in the wagon train was still sitting quietly, as though they’d never expected rest or supplies in the first place. Perhaps the time had come to get over his irrational fear of the man in charge of the caravan and start looking for answers—

Wait… back up!

Christopher Knighton’s entire train of thought screeched to a halt and rewound. His head darted around and he saw a mass of townsfolk closing in on the caravan from behind. He counted at least twenty, many of them carrying pitchforks. Their sickly, shadowy faces were painted with the telltale expressions of fear-spawned anger. More scuffing footsteps alerted the chef to the presence of another mob moving in from the front of the wagon train. They were surrounded…

A balding fat man stood tall at the forefront of the second mob. In his ornate robes, he looked like a purple silk potato sack, waddling forward and waving a club. Dark rings circled his eyes and large, fleshy jowls dominated his pale face. His corpulent appearance, style of dress, and the pompous air laced through his nasal voice marked him off as someone important – or, more accurately, someone self-important.

“They must be thralls of the bloodsucker!” the man screamed, pointing at the caravan. “Get them!” The townsfolk hesitated for a moment, as though sparks of reason were surfacing in their minds. These sparks were, of course, extinguished like candles in wind, as they let their fear take over once again.

“Wait. Thralls of the what?” asked Chris, subtly reaching into his coat for his trusty chef knife, just in case. “What are you talking about?”

“Silence, heathen!” cried the ringleader, his face contorting with rage. To the cook’s trained eyes, the rage appeared more exaggerated and forced than sincere. He took another step toward the caravan, clumsily brandishing his weapon. His grey hair was damp with sweat, as though even that minor physical exertion was strenuous.

“A funny thing for one such as yourself to say, Mayor Eugeny.” The caravan leader was on his feet with a steel-bound staff in his hand, closing the distance between him and the mob’s fat figurehead. “Now, don’t do anything… unwise.”

The plump mayor’s eyes went wide and his voice jumped up an octave. “What… I-I don’t know what you’re talking about!” he cried.

Marvelous, thought the cook. To his distinct dismay, things were getting interesting.

[Christoph]

“So tell me, how has Lord Kincaid been treating his faithful servant?” asked the young, cloaked merchant coolly, his voice clear and confident. Chris could even spot a smile forming on the man’s lips. The mayor, on the other hand, became even more flustered; his wrinkled forehead was visibly red, even in the low light.

“Th-this is outrageous! Preposterous!” the fat man cried, his former air of pompous superiority having evaporated in an instant, replaced by poorly concealed fear. He made one last effort to reassert his control over the situation. “The lord of death and night is the enemy of us all! How dare you make such an accusation?”

The mayor forced an expression of blatant outrage onto his face. Again, though, Knighton could spot the insincerity of it with ease. The anger was real, but the righteousness behind it was not. The chef had no doubt that the cloaked caravan leader noticed, too, for he simply chuckled, making the mayor even angrier.

“I demand to know by what authority you make such allegations!”

The heavy, darker cloak concealed light, finely tailored cloak of ice blue. That alone didn’t seem important, but the silver symbol pinned to the cloak did. It was a sword design, only the handle was in the shape of a balance scale and the image of an eye was engraved into the blade.

A lump formed in the chef’s throat at the sight. It was the symbol most commonly associated with the witch hunters and assassin priests of the Ethereal Sway.

“I act by the only true authority, Eugeny,” the Sway witch hunter replied, his eyes narrowing slightly. The chef’s unease was nothing compared to the sheer terror now gripping the mayor, who seemed to barely keep from soiling himself. “So answer carefully. Would you defy the divine authority of the Ethereal Sway in addition to your other blasphemies?” The mayor shrank visibly and sank backwards. The mobs of villagers had already lowered their weapons, looking on in shock.

“No! No…” The obese mayor’s club clattered to the cobbled road. His voice rose as his weapon fell. “I swear! I am not a blasphemer!” The starkness of the man’s change in demeanor took the cook aback; he could not longer tell if the mayor was still putting on an act or if he had actually be driven to that sad state by the presence of such a dangerous religious agent. Both seemed plausible.

“Then you are either lying, or you are a greater fool than I thought,” growled the hunter. “Either one is a capital crime, Mayor.”

“No! Please!” the mayor pleaded, falling to his knees. None of the villagers budged. They were frozen, their eyes locked on the two powerful men before them. “I would never side with the Vampire Lord!”

Everything clicked in Christopher’s mind at that moment. Deep down, he’d already made the connection but had been trying to deny it. Now the truth was before him, indisputable and undeniable. That explained the unsettling aura clinging to the land. That explained why the villagers hid in darkness after sunset, hoping that their unnatural predator would pass them by one more night.

Of all the things to get caught up in on his way home, why did it have to be one of the night-stalking beasts? Why did it have to be a vampire?

To say that the cook was shocked would be an understatement. To say that this turn of events truly surprised him, however, would have been a blatant lie. Such things were all too typical to the patterns of his life.

The witch hunter allowed Eugeny little time to beg. His voice carried the stern edge of a judge and his eyes flared with vengeful wrath. “You have allowed the infernal forces of this monster to ravage the countryside in your domain and you attacked a caravan that has come to your town in peace. It is through the cowardly actions of men like you that evil is able to thrive. It is because of filth like you that innocent families are destroyed and orphans created.”

“No!” cried the mayor, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

“Take him away!” the Sway agent ordered. The ten remaining men with the caravan immediately answered the order, springing forth to restrain the mayor and drag him, screaming, into the shadows. Chris merely stood there, dumbfounded, his face sweating despite the cold air.

The chef’s discomfort multiplied dramatically the longer he stayed in close proximity to the witch hunter. The Church of the Ethereal Sway was duly respected throughout Salvar and rightfully feared by practitioners of magic. Everyone knew the stories of their brutal exploits, kidnapping traitors and political enemies in the dead of night, and having “dangerous” sorcerers burned at the stake. Darker still were the stories of the exploits of their more fanatical witch hunters. The sorcerer Chris had much to fear from their ilk.

He refused to dwell on the mayor’s fate, even though his best guesses were probably frighteningly accurate. On one hand, the chef felt little sympathy for the gluttonous official; he was corrupt and a fool at best and a twisted slave to the undead at worst. One the other hand, the chef knew that one false step, one clumsy mistake that revealed him for the sorcerer that he was, could put him in the same position.

He found himself wondering if he’d been a mass-murdering rapist in a past life, for the choice between death at the hands of the undead or in the witch pyres of the Church seemed very grim indeed.

[Christoph]

Chris walked through the dark streets alone, retreating from the commotion in the center of town. Torches had been hastily lit as the Sway agents began questioning the villagers. After the night’s revelations, the chef craved solitude.

The chilly air prickled on Elijah’s skin. He rubbed his arms and drew his light chef coat tightly around his body. The cold had been bothering him more and more lately – even the gentle chills from summer nights. He wasn’t used to it anymore.

“It does get cold up here, doesn’t it?” The familiar voice of the young witch hunter made Chris jump. The startled cook froze, trying to form words into a reply. His attempt was swiftly and adeptly cut off. “I’m surprised that you haven’t taught yourself a spell to keep warm.”

The sorcerer’s entire body became rigid and still. His eyes widened as he gazed into the darkness, refusing to face the religious agent. How did the man know?

“I… what?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice calm as his composure wavered.

The dark-haired man laughed softly. It was the warm, affable chuckle that the chef would have expected from an old friend at the tavern rather than a ruthless hunter of the unnatural.

“I know what you can do,” said the agent simply. Chris spun around to face him, prepared for the worst, only to see the man grinning. He chuckled again. “Don’t worry, friend, I’m not about to kill you for using magic.”

The cook raised a confused eyebrow. “But how did you— ”

The hunter cut him off again, his smile turning sly. “I’m very good at my job, Christopher Knighton,” he replied. “But I only use your sort of petty ‘witchcraft’ as grounds to arrest and execute those who were… already my targets.”

“You know, that really doesn’t make it sound much better.”

“No, I suppose not. But it does ensure your immediate safety.”

In spite of himself, Chris relaxed a little. Logic prevailed, telling him that had the caravan full the agents of the Ethereal Sway had wanted him dead or in custody, he would have been tied to a burning stake already.

“What can I do for you, then?” asked the cook.

He inhaled deeply and finally looked the dark-haired hunter in the eyes. Their gazes locked with an almost tangible energy; the two forces of will collided in an invisible storm. Everything about the man was formidable, from his speech, to his poise, to his undeniable aura of power. Chris had always considered himself to be a potent individual, but the dark haired agent of religious wrath was the alpha wolf and young Knighton was a lowly coyote in comparison.

“Names first,” he replied. “My name is Marcus Salbrecht.”

“Should I feel privileged that I know your name?” asked Chris, unable to control his innate sarcasms. To his surprise, Marcus laughed.

“No… ‘Privileged’ information involves a lot more pain and blood for most people,” answered the Sway agent.

“Right,” he replied, nervously. “But tell me, how ‘privileged’ would I need to be to know why you were all pretending to be merchants and why you weren’t the least bit surprised when the mayor tried having us killed? I’m going to go out on a metaphorical limb and guessing that it’s not wild coincidence, regardless of how mischievous fate can be.”

“You speak more like a scholar than a cook; are you sure that you chose the right profession?” asked Marcus, leaning casually against the wall.

The cook rolled his eyes. “Which? Cooking or setting things on fire with semi-illegal magic?”

“Take your pick,” replied the hunter with a smirk. “But your suspicions are correct, which is why I came to find you.”

“I really don’t like where this is going,” Chris groaned. “I know that there is more to all this than it seems. I know that that mayor wasn’t the only one you came to bring to justice, but I was hoping that, for once, I could not get sucked into another mess.”

“Yes, yes, you’ll just need to cope,” replied Marcus dismissively. “And you’re smart for your age; there is still much work to do. My interrogators have extracted some very valuable information from the former mayor of this town.”

The pyromancer cringed. “You people work unnervingly fast. Remind me never to make you angry.”

“Amusingly,” the agent laughed. “That’s not the first time someone has said that to me.” His voice grew serious. “At any rate, after having something of a little conversation with the mayor, we were able to confirm the existence of vampire Kincaid’s tower in the forest and discern its location.”

“But wouldn’t someone have come across it by now?” inquired Chris. He smirked. “Dark ominous towers are hardly inconspicuous.”

“That is another matter Eugeny was kind enough to explain. As it turns out, there’s some sort of enchantment on the structure so that it’s only visible at night, and—”

“And who in their right mind would go off to find a vampire’s lair at night?”

“Precisely,” Marcus answered, looking Knighton in the eyes.

“Abyss take me… All right, this is where you tell me that you need my help for something that’s likely to get me killed, correct?”

“Ha, a very good guess,” replied the hunter. “And close, too. We have an opportunity to go into the forest and destroy this dark power once and for all, before he escapes and casts his shadow somewhere else. My subordinates should be rallying the town militia right now, but our numbers will be small. I will need every able man I can get out there, Chris, especially one with your skills. Superstition and intolerance be damned, fire is a potent weapon against the undead, and I’m willing to look the other way. It will go a long way in keeping morale high.”

“This is insanity,” argued the sorcerer, finally finding his nerve. “What you’re proposing could have consequences worse than death!”

“Do not lecture me on the risks,” Marcus shot back in a warning growl. His voice softened again quickly, though. “This is our only chance. Besides, the heavens are on our side tonight. I understand that you did not plan for this when you hitched a ride, and I did not expect your presence, either,” continued the hunter. “This was not a coincidence; I have no doubt that Gods of the Sway had a hand in it. The odds are stacked against us, but I doubt that Kincaid, for all his power, will expect such a bold move. Your presence will help fight off his unnatural minions and keep the courage of the villagers from shattering like a piece of pottery. If they panic out there...”

"We're all dead.” Chris finished, with a sigh, the full weight of the situation falling upon him. They were all dead. But what choice did he have?

[Christoph]

The battle raged beneath Sandulf’s dark granite wings. The stink of rotting flesh floated like a putrid mist between the trees. Grown men screamed like children as the unholy beasts tore them limb from limb. There were no clear battle lines to speak of anymore. Chaos reigned supreme. By the dark gods, it was beautiful! Two hundred years standing as a motionless living statue had done nothing to diminish his appreciation for beauty and art. And this hurricane of bloodshed was art at its finest.

When the village “army” arrived, the battle didn’t erupt all at once. Rather, it began with a series of small skirmishes as the walking dead lurched through the forest in staggered groups. Over two hundred townsfolk and militia had charged into the fray with reckless abandon, bludgeoning the zombies and skeletons with a variety of makeshift weapons. They quickly and easily pushed the undead forces back, or so it seemed.

In their careless courage, they mortals hadn’t even seen the trap until the vice closed around their neck. Then Kincaid’s plan had come into action as his silent, shambling legion poured from the twisted trees from all directions. Finally, Sandulf and his stone kin descended upon the attackers like an executioner’s ax.

The gargoyle’s stone lips formed into a gleeful smile as he swooped down to pluck an unsuspecting villager from the ground, tearing out the mortal’s throat midair. Sandulf had not had such fun in many decades. It made him wish that his master Kincaid’s victims would rise up more often.

He swooped down for another attack, raking his claws across the stomach of another pitchfork-wielding upstart. He then drove his other hand right through the chest of a third, just as the man cracked off a metal ball from his flintlock pistol, ripping out a shredded wad of flesh and bone. He threw his victims aside like discarded husks.

The winged statue strode forward for a few seconds, swatting aside the weak humans with the backs of his hands, before taking off into the dark sky once again. Soon, the pathetic mortals would learn for all that he and his master reigned supreme in the dead of night.

Sandulf’s burning eyes were suddenly drawn to a lone male figure wearing a white coat of a chef. What easy prey. The bloodthirsty gargoyle arced down without a moment’s hesitation, his clawed hands outstretched. The lithe, brown-haired human saw him coming though, and cried out with a start, diving aside. The stone demon grinned. This one might prove good sport, after all, especially judging by the handful of undead corpses strewn around him.

Surprisingly, the cook didn’t run away or attempt to strike with the large knife in his hand. Instead, he conjured an orange sphere of flame in his hands and hurled it at Sandulf’s chest, leaving a painful patch of cracked red. A fire wizard? That would complicate things for Kincaid, but not for a creature of stone.

He swatted the pyromancer to the ground with the back of his hand. Pathetic. This human didn’t cower and whimper like the others. Instead, he wore a smug smirk upon his face. Oh, yes, this will be fun, but not for you.

He would truly enjoy extracting his entrails. He would rend the boy’s flesh brutally from his bones while he screamed for mercy. Then, he’d feast upon the warm flesh before handing the rendered, violated carcass over to his master to become another member of the dead legion. And then—

Sandulf’s thoughts ended abruptly, never to resume, as his head transformed into molten slag in a blinding flash, sending a spray of smoldering rock in all directions. The human climbed back to his feet and stood over the broken granite beast, a spear of shimmering white fire in his fist. The dying gargoyle would not despair, however, for his master would surely avenge him.

[Christoph]

“‘By the grace of the Ethereal Sway shall we be delivered from plague, temptation, and war.’”

Marcus rushed from the ranks of soldiers and into the zombie swarms, smashing the abominations into mangled heaps with his staff. He danced through a sea of rotting flesh like a whirlwind of destruction, leaving a swath of devastation in his wake. No doubt his display filled the militia with awe, but that was not his primary goal. All of his fallen foes were but obstacles in the path of his true target.

As the hunter fought his way up the final hill, the shroud of cloud parted, allowing the moon to wash the forest with its sickly glow. And there it was, standing like the ominous shadow of a demon in the surreal light. Even through the trees and in the gloom, jagged spikes were clearly visible protruding from the black stone. Balconies lined with spiked railings and covered with stone gargoyle statues dotted the walls. Marcus settled his eyes grimly upon the monument of terror.

A dark, lithe figure leapt from the highest window in the tower, smashing out the iron bars blocking it as it exited. The shadowy form landed on the ground with cat-like grace. Its eyes glowed faintly of hellish green and an expression of cold malice dominated the creature’s face. Kincaid had revealed himself and marked the beginning of the final act.

“‘By Their justice shall the righteous steal from the plate of debauchery to feed the mouths of the pure.’”

He tightened the grip on his blood-soaked quarterstaff, leveling his eyes at his adversary. For twenty-five years, he’d prepared for this moment. Since the night that the beast took his family and left him in the forest to die, he had been waiting.

From the moment that his parents were murdered just outside of Tirel and their bodies violated by the vampire Kincaid, the hunter had awaited this moment. He knew that in a world of victims, all must desire retribution, but few would ever possess the might to extract it. That was what set him above the common man – faith, will, and strength.

For over two decades, Marcus had prepared for the night in which he would finally possess the power to avenge his family and all of the other innocent lives that the vampiric monster had destroyed. Whether he fought in the name of Ethereal Sway or not made no difference; this was a personal task.

Perhaps it was destiny; perhaps it wasn’t. It didn’t matter. Fate carried no weight compared to the power of desire; and no desire was stronger or more all consuming than that for vengeance.

“‘By Their wisdom shall we be protected from the blight of evil and the blasphemy of abominations!’”

He started for the vampire, the abomination, taking long, purposeful strides. The rest of the battle disappeared as he advanced on his family’s murderer. His slow strides quickly shifted into a lightning sprint.

His foe’s face came into view under the moonlight. The creature carried no expression of fear or surprise, nor one of anger or confusion. There was no spark of recognition; why would a monster remember a victim? Instead, Kincaid’s lips formed a smile of the most malevolent amusement and a haunting laugh escaped his throat.

The hunter recognized that laugh, as no doubt every one of his victims did.

Marcus grit his teeth as he silently chanted verses from the Litanies of Might and Retribution. Even with the frigid air whipping through his hair, he was sweating more than he ever had in his life.

“‘And by Their might shall the divine servants smite the agents of wickedness!’”

The hunter’s first blow struck before the vampire had even drawn his sword. The slick staff snapped forward, slicing through the air too swiftly for mortal eyes to follow. Kincaid’s eyes, however, were not mortal. As fast as the attack was, the vampire anticipated the strike and blocked just in time, the staff cracking brutally against the creature’s forearms.

Kincaid spun to the side and drew his sword in a single fluid motion before making a counter attack. The gleaming blade flashed with supernatural light as it connected with the other end of Marcus’s staff, mere inches from the hunter’s thigh. The vampire didn’t let the duel stagnate for a moment. He lashed out in a flurry of attacks, each one accompanied by an eerie flash of light.

Marcus found himself forced back, desperately parrying each strike inches before the blade reached his flesh. It became a vicious dance with a rapidly increasing tempo. Kincaid came in for a thrust; the priest parried it down just in time.

An undead fist impacted Marcus’s very living skull with a sickening crack. The force of the punch sent the hunter spinning to the ground. Carefully honed combat reflexes took over as his vision failed him. He rolled to the side, narrowly escaping Kincaid’s demonic blade. Trusting his instincts, the holy warrior struck out with his foot mid-roll, kicking the side of the vampire’s jaw with a crunch almost as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be.

Marcus scrambled to his feet, deflecting more blows through luck and faith alone. He sprang backwards frantically, out of his foe’s sword range.

It had become clear that he was outmatched. Already, his breath had grown ragged and short while his undying adversary had no need for air at all. Kincaid’s relentless advance forced him further and further back. He offered a bleak prayer that Ethereal Sway would preserve his soul.

Desperate, he realized that he had but one card left to play. With the meager gap between the opponents rapidly closing, Marcus produced three small stones from his cloak. Arcane runes of destruction, justice, and fire were respectively etched onto the grey surface of each one. He grinned harshly and hurled all three at once. They detonated in a vicious supernatural explosion, spreading a wave of fire and kinetic force over the shocked vampire.

The brief glimmer of hope lasted barely an instant, however, before the shock quickly passed to Marucs as Kincaid flipped backward away from the magically generated inferno with grace beyond that of any acrobat. The hunter cursed as the slightly scorched and battered vampire started for him again, a murderous snarl on his face and the arcane markings on his blade burning brightly.

Marcus struck out desperately with his staff, but this time the vampire lord caught its steel-shod shaft in his free hand, yanking it from the hunter’s hands like an abusive parent stripping a child of a toy.

He felt his own staff strike his ribs. The metal bindings creaked, bent, and gave out, and the wood splintered and snapped, along with his bones. He tumbled helplessly to the ground just as the vampire’s sword cut deep into the hunter’s chest and neck, burning like a hellish branding iron. His heart stopped and the world faded into a sea of blackness and agony.

[Christoph]

Chris watched in horror as Marcus fell before the might of the vampire, unable to look away from the gruesome scene. In an instant, the last glimmer of hope vanished, snuffed out under the boot of the undead. The town militia had broken into several pockets of survivors, each fighting their own individual battles of survival, and the undead host seemed to spawn endlessly from every shadow.

“This… is so very, very bad.” The sorcerer swallowed hard. Marcus had been defeated and the vampire still lived. He shuddered to think of the power and skill that it must have taken to defeat the witch hunter. The only consolation was that Kincaid seemed to be drained and injured, but even one without Chris’s sensitivity to the flow of magic would have realized that the creature was quickly recovering.

And that sword… The cook’s eyes were drawn magnetically to it. There was no doubt that the blade that the vampire wielded was magical. The glyphs and runes covering it glowed with devastating arcane power. Such a weapon would only make the mighty vampire even more dangerous.

One chance remained, and he cursed himself for even considering it.

Yet, there was no other option. He crept down the hill, darting from tree to tree until he reached the base of the black tower. He inched along the wall of the infernal structure, making sure to keep out of the vampire’s sight.

He focused his energies and chanted self-taught formulae under his breath, tuning out the din of battle. He felt the familiar warmth of magic surge through his body. His lungs burned, the hairs on his neck stood on end, and he felt truly invigorated. The concentration of magic in the air was stronger than he’d ever felt before.

Swallowing his fear, Chris jumped out into the open to face a surprised and clearly annoyed vampire. With a strained cry, the sorcerer unleashed a devastating wave of fiery wrath. Raw magical energy poured from his fingertips in a river of pure, white flame and enveloped the vampire lord. The force of the attack threw the unholy creature against the wrought iron gate of the tower. His hissing, bloodcurdling shriek carried across the entire battlefield like a tormented wraith.

Chris didn’t relent. He focused his energy into a concentrated inferno, consuming the undead tyrant as though he were a corpse in a crematorium. Knighton’s eyes burned bright like brimstone. Kincaid’s screams deepened into a demonic bellow as the flames ate away his stubborn vitality. The tortured howl pierced the heavens and resonated through Chris’s skull.

The pyromancer didn’t cease the attack until his strength failed him. By the time he had finished, the sleeves and hems of his chef coat were singed, his fingertips were black and blistered, and a webbing of raw burns covered his forearms like veins. He gasped for air and choked down a cry of pain, realizing the severity of his exertion. Kincaid had been reduced to a sizzling, blackened husk.

He approached his fallen opponent to look over his handiwork, smiling grimly. He only got within four steps, however, when the vampire tightened his hand around the hilt of the magical sword and, with a raspy hiss, climbed back to his feet.

“Gods preserve us,” the exhausted sorcerer whispered as Kincaid lurched toward him.

[Christoph]

Fire. It was the bane of the Unliving. It had consumed him, singing his flesh, boiling his blood, and threatening to extinguish the stolen life that he’d spent centuries so jealously guarding. He had been brought to his knees. Was this what awaited him in the next world? If so, he never wanted to die.

The burning ceased, only to be replaced with an even more excruciating pain as the icy wind hit his charred undead flesh. Kincaid snarled as his strength faded. He grit his teeth defiantly, unwilling to have met his end at the hands of a puny mortal magician.

Then, he felt vitality return to him. Invisible tendrils of energy slithered from his sword, up his arm, and coiled soothingly around his dead heart like a cold serpent. It was as though spite alone drove him on. Or perhaps the abyssal blade was not yet ready to let its master fall.

Kincaid stood, a grin forming on his mangled face at the sight of his attacker’s shocked, frightened expression. The boy backed up quickly.

Not so fast. Kincaid sprung forward, inhumanly fast despite his injuries, slashing out repeatedly with his wicked sword. The chef dove out of the way, narrowly evading the lethal strike. The vampire’s blade sank several inches into a tree trunk. He growled and cursed his agonizing injuries. The pyromancer was proving annoyingly adept at not dying.

The undead lord snarled as the boy retreated and evaded. He lashed out angrily with his claws, raking across the mortal’s chest. The scent of blood tingled his nostrils and threatened his self-control. Only through strength of will did he contain his thirst.

The boy cried out as the vampire’s claws tore more flesh in another slash. The chef started to panic as the Kincaid closed in. Good. Unfortunately, he lacked the time and strength to truly savor it. Killing could be so boring if one couldn’t take the time to enjoy it. Fortunately, there would be plenty of time to truly relish the deaths of his enemies, or rather, his cattle, before the night ended.

A swift kick sent the magician flying several feet back. Blood spewed from the boy’s mouth. Kincaid pulled his sword free and lunged after his prey. Victory was close. His nightmarish minions were already devouring the helpless mortal soldiers. Soon, these upstarts would learn to remember their places as the cattle of the immortals.

He raised his blade to finish the boy off. While he couldn’t enjoy his victim’s fleeting moments of life, he would make him worth the effort in death. He would consume the magician’s flesh, blood, and soul, delighting in it and savoring it like fine wine.

Suddenly, Kincaid felt a piercing pain in his back as something drove past his spine and through his ribcage, into his black, atrophied heart. The agony from his burns multiplied three-fold. His body went rigid and he fell, paralyzed, to the ground. His sword and the dark gods had forsaken him, leaving him broken and defeated in both body and spirit.

The moon cast the shadow of a ghost upon him.

[Christoph]

A bewildered Chris staggered to his feet as the creature that should have been his demise suddenly fell to the ground before him. He lurched forward, his exhausted legs shaking under his weight. Then, the chef saw the broken half of a familiar staff in Kincaid’s back. It had pierced directly between his shoulder blades, stabbing into his heart.

Staked through the heart…

The sorcerer’s eyes finally fell upon the cloaked figure behind the fallen undead warlord.

“Marcus?” he asked, seeing the familiar green eyes. “This is impossible. You were dead!”

The warrior priest laughed. “By all rights, I should be,” he replied, showing the chef the other half of the staff. “The last thing I remember was that beast smashing my ribs to splinters and piercing my heart with his infernal blade. But yet…” He pulled his cloak back to reveal a torn, bloody shirt, but a perfectly intact torso.

“This is impossible,” the chef repeated, disbelief painted on his face clearer than the blood splotches. “Magic?”

“I believe my gods decided that it was not yet my time,” stated Marcus solemnly. “Whatever plans they have for me, they didn’t involve me meeting my end at the hands of this vampire tonight.”

The cook couldn’t help but scoff, forgetting for a moment that he was talking to a witch hunter and warrior priest of the Grand Church of the Ethereal Sway.

“Oh, come now,” replied Christopher, incredulous. “You don’t actually believe that, do—” It took no more than a stern glare from Marcus to silence the pyromancer. “Oh, right… I suppose you do.”

“Yes, I do.” The two of them stood in awkward silence for several moments.

“It seems the battle is ours, then,” stated Chris, finally. “Though the cost was grave.”

Marcus nodded. “It always is. The identifiable dead are being gathered. Everyone else, including the zombies’ remains, are being hauled to a large ravine a few hundred meters behind the tower to be burned.”

“That’s probably for the best,” he replied. “And… thank you for saving my miserable hide.”

The hunter smirked. “Oh, it looked like you had it under control, judging by all those nasty burn marks on the abomination.”

“Well, I do have a few tricks…”

Marcus chuckled. “‘Remind me never to make you angry.’”

The cook cringed slightly before gazing down at the seemingly dead Kincaid.

“I had better make sure he doesn’t get up again,” said pyromancer, reaching down for the vampire’s ornate sword. He felt a surge of power rush through his arm the moment his hand gripped the hilt. With a single fluid motion, he severed the creature’s head from his shoulder. “This… is a beautiful weapon, wouldn’t you say?”

He smiled, feeling the strange euphoric energy flow through him. The hilt seemed to melt into his fingers. The hunter’s expression, however, was far more apprehensive, though Chris couldn’t be bothered to notice. The runes and glyphs covering the blade still glowed faintly, burning into his eyes.

“That sword is evil, Christopher,” said the hunter, taking a step toward him. “It’s dangerous. We will need to dispose of it.” The chef didn’t respond, his gaze still locked on the blade. “Chris? Knighton! ”

The pyromancer jumped with a start, jerked from his daze. “Ah! You’re right, of course. We… this sword needs to be gotten rid of…”

Marcus nodded. "As it is, I don't know how to destroy it." He paused thoughtfully. "Our best option is to bury it with all of the bodies in the ravine before we burn them. The pile of charred remains and ash should be enough to keep it hidden until I can send for more knowledgeable aid to take care of it for good."

"Why don't you just take it?" asked Chris, raising an eyebrow. He held the sword out -- albeit reluctantly -- to the witch hunter. "Why not just keep it in your possession and protect it yourself?" The Marcus began to reach for the blade almost too quickly, but then recoiled, expertly concealed fear in his eyes.

"No. That would be unwise," he stated at last. "Follow me. This is how it must be.”

[Christoph]

The town celebrated for the remainder of the night. Chris couldn’t decide whether they were truly happy about their hard-won liberation, or if they merely wanted to drown out the horror and loss with copious amounts of alcohol. The hedge-mage had no desire to join them, though he couldn’t figure out why.

It wasn’t homesickness, as he was mere short weeks from his town. He certainly didn’t scorn the victory either, and he felt no bitterness for having fought for strangers. By all rights, such a noble deed should have made left him proud, and it did. He was happy for the town. He had never been the dark, quiet, brooding type, either. He’d always enjoyed the company of others.

Then why this solitude?

The weary cook sighed. Chris enjoyed being the hero, but little had gone right that night. He had considered himself a potent individual and had admittedly gotten used to seeing others react with awe and fear to just a fraction of his power. Here, though, even his best wasn’t enough. Fire was the weakness of Vampires, yet even every ounce of power he possessed failed to vanquish the beast.

He’d always been well aware that there were many forces in the world mightier than he. However, knowing that and actually being thrown in the middle of a case study are two very different things. It proved a humbling experience, as well as frightening. It was easy for him to think about sinister villains and beasts of unbelievable power from the depths of the hells when he could simply pretend that they were in some far away land, not right in his backyard.

“The more power you have, the more power you see,” he muttered as he stalked the edge of town alone. He gazed at the starry sky. The thick blanket of clouds had drifted away like a film of smoke hiding the stubborn light of a thousand candles. Each star was small enough to pluck from the sky, and just one of them had more power than the entire world. He sighed. “The more power you see, the more you crave.” But where could he find power he craved? He already knew the answer to that question. But could he go through with it?

He already knew the answer.

* * * * *

The cool Salvic wind swept across edges of the forest and through Marcus’s hair. On the bright side, at least he was still alive to feel it. That in and of itself would baffle him for the rest of his life. By all rights, he should have died. His chest cavity should have been smashed to dust like dried clay and his heart pierced and bled. His gods must have had plans for him.

They must have. There was no other explanation. Why, if he hadn’t somehow risen again, that cook-magician would have been killed, the vampire would have survived, the villager assault would have been crushed, the blight of the abyssal blade would have spread outward like a cancer, and Xem’zûnd would still have had an agent within Salvar.

Marcus stopped sharply as he heard faint shuffling sound to his right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow creep from one tree to another. The witch hunter cleared his throat.

“‘The light of the Sway shines brightest in the dead of night,’” he called. A few moments of silence followed before the shadowy figure emerged from the night. “Good evening, brother Boris. It’s good to see a friendly face lurking in the shadows for once.”

“Well met, Marcus,” replied Boris, stepping into the moonlight. He was a graying old man in brown robes, his face so heavily lined and scarred that it could have been carved from granite. His sky blue eyes were stern and distant. “But I was beginning to think that you’d had so much to drink that you didn’t notice me.” Marcus laughed and gripped the old monk’s hand firmly.

“It’s good to see you, old friend,” said the Ethereal Sway hunter.

Boris nodded. “Aye, likewise. Now, for the business at hand.”

“The hunt is finally over,” Marcus replied. “The self-proclaimed vampire lord was, in fact, Kincaid, and my agents reported that he was definitely an agent of Xem’zûnd. Fortunately, he was vanquished and his tower purged. Also, his sword has been secured; its days of plaguing the mortal realm are numbered few.”

“This has been a fortuitous turn of events,” said the old man with a warm smile and a nod. “Have you anything more to report?”

Marcus paused and inhaled deeply. “I should have died out there, brother,” he replied solemnly. “The beast dealt me a mortal blow, yet here I stand.”

“What? How?” he asked with a certain air of urgency.

The hunter sighed and shrugged. “That’s the strange part. He ran me through with his blade. I felt my heart stop as I bled out. Yet, less than twenty minutes later, I stood back up without a scratch or bruise on me.” He smiled softly. It was a smile that held an emotion very rare in such times: hope. “For whatever reason, that Gods must favor me. They must have a plan for me.”

The older man sighed and shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” he stated. Marcus raised an eyebrow, his optimism and hope crumbling in an instant. “You are too important to the Church for us to allow you to die so easily.”

“What do you mean?”

“How old were you when you were rescued by the Ethereal Sway priests?” he asked.

“Five years old,” replied the young hunter.

“Any other time we would have just taken you in and given you food and shelter, instead of inducting you into the Order. However, one of our eldest priests was on his deathbed that night and we needed someone to take his place.” Marcus tilted his head in confusion, and the older man continued. “He was a seal-bearer, Marcus, with a powerful and vital enchantment bound to his life – an enchantment that, if broken, could bring about an era worse than Salvar’s age of blood. None of our number were fit to hold it, but you… you were a strong boy. You had endured terrible hardship, and we knew that you could be trained and prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” asked the holy warrior.

“Prepared to survive, my boy!” replied Boris. “Part of your preparation involved an enchantment which protect you from death, but only once. That’s what saved you tonight, Marcus!” He pressed a clenched fist into his forehead. “Our enemies are moving, enemies greater and more dangerous than the petty king of this country. Our numbers are dwindling and the seal-bearers are already being hunted down. And now you’re vulnerable.” He sighed. “The time may come when we’re ordered to sneak all of the seal-bearers to Alerar to keep them safe. There’s too much at stake to risk.” A long silence stretched on for what seemed like hours. Only the wind remained, whispering doubt and fear into Marcus’s ear.

“So I’ve been one of these seal-bearers, then?” he asked at last, still unable to accept the loss of the foundation of his faith. His body shook with rage and disbelief and anger infected his voice. “And my life was saved by a magic trick? What else is a lie, Boris?”

“I’m sorry, Marcus,” replied the monk, his voice sad and sympathetic. “Very little is as you’ve grown to understand.”

The witch hunter took a deep breath, calming his nerves and mind as he always had in stressful situations. He had many questions churning in his mind, countless doubts now burning in the pit of his stomach. He wanted answers. He wanted to know that everything he’d lived for and fought for was not a lie. One question overshadowed all others, however.

“What, exactly, is being sealed away?”

A trace of fear entered the old man’s hardened eyes, as foreign as ice in a desert. “It would suffice to say that Xem’zûnd’s war in Raiaera is the least of our worries.”

* * * * *

Where is it? He knew it was there; he could feel it.

Chris dug, almost frantically, through the endless heap of ashes and charred human remains that choked the dark ravine behind the burnt-out shell of Kincaid’s tower. His white chef coat was caked with black soot. He would need to dispose of it, lest he rouse the suspicions of the Sway agents

He couldn’t believe his own actions. He was digging through a giant crematorium. The atrocious smell caused him to gag every few seconds. It would all be worth it soon enough, he promised himself.

It would need to be very soon, though. The first traces of morning light were kissing the purple horizon. The sun would soon rise and Chris would need to be back at the inn before the others started to wake up.

I know it’s here…

“At last!” he shouted as his hand closed around the familiar hilt to the arcane sword. Immediately, coils of cold energy slithered up his arm, causing him to moan softly. He inhaled deeply, a faint smile on his face. He climbed out of the ravine, the blade firmly in his grasp.

And from within the depths of the abyss, a dark god laughed.